Cleveland has really championed the notion of summer. I've had more days in a sweater than in sandals (although that may be because I run chilly and because my Chacos don't fit in my toeclips). At any rate, my hometown's Erie climate has withheld the sunny lilt with which summer ought to speak, and I'm pissed off.
Complaining doesn't change the cloud cover, of course, but it does feel good. Who's the patron saint of impossible cases? St. Jude couldn't do anything about this wet July. As far as I know, even Jesus never made it rain.
I suppose I just need to find the strength to reign myself in and enjoy the sit-down; the day off. I'm a bit like a landing fighter jet, I think, in that without the figurative equivalent of an aircraft carrier's arresting wires to slow my momentum, I'll shoot of the end of wherever I've landed with only a brief taxi and a quick hello.
Did I ever appreciate sitting still? Did I ever even tolerate it? I can't conjure an accurate memory. Days off from swim practice usually pleased me, but that may have been because I could use the time to be on the move and active in ways impossible in the pool. As for weekends, I know I always hated Sundays...I wanted to "go somewhere and do something," but Sundays were made for working Christians, and I am neither employed nor devout. These days of rest seem a little superfluous to me, partly because the weather in this town (depending on severity) tends to prohibit activity from biking to driving to work anyway. Why impose an official day of doing nothing when we're already so frequently, naturally blessed with a meteorological sabbath?